In The Dark Spaces Between Moments
by Alicamel
Summary: Instead of Sheridan, Ivanova was captured by Clark's forces.


I didn't like Intersections... It was too clean to be torture, but I guess there are limits to what you can do on screen. Well, I don't have that issue. Also, did anyone else think that Sheridan Senior's 'rare blood disorder' was a little convenient?  
  
I know, pick, pick, pick. Anyhow. Here is my version on Intersections, assuming that Ivanova was captured instead, during the battle with the new Destroyers in 'Between the Darkness and the Light.' That sets it a little later than Intersections and related plotlines.   
  
WARNING: Deals with rape, (in an abstract way, nothing graphic) torture, humiliation and lots of nasty gross stuff. Definitely R material.  
  
There may be sequels if people are real nice to me. g That means feedback, btw.  
  
Many thanks and virtual lollypops to Starkiller, starkiller@primus.com.au Visit her cool site and fiction at http://www.darksites.com/souls/pagan/starkiller/fandomdex.html  
  
  
  
In the Dark Spaces Between Moments.  
  
At first she tried to keep track. One night, one day, two nights, two days, three nights. Assuming the new destroyers travelled at the same speed through hyperspace as the old ones. Assuming she doesn't sleep for days at a time. Assuming days are when he comes to her room, all official suits, and briefcases and forms, and night is when they come, in the dark, faceless, and definitely unofficial, and   
  
She can't count straight anymore. She tries, but they numbers don't come out right. She thinks she's skipping some. She thinks she's making some up. She loses track. She's tired.  
  
She can't decide what's the worst part. She hates the days, when they confuse her, tell her lies, and half-truths. She fears the nights, the anticipation as bad as the event. Maybe worse. Maybe the in-between parts are the worst.   
  
She's not used to such inactivity. She's had no practise at it.  
  
He said today that the fleet had already been defeated. He made it sound so plausible. Little touches, details that sounded . . . right. That some of the defected ships hadn't defected. That they'd made it half way from Mars to Earth before being stopped.   
  
That the alien ships had abandoned them.   
  
And Sheridan was in custody, so she wasn't helping them capture him, just confirming what he'd done, that it made no difference, that others had signed, and all you need to do is write your name, here, on this dotted line, one curling finger tracing it across the page, the other hand holding out a silver tipped fountain pen. Right here, Commander. S . . . U . . .  
  
She remembers learning to write her name. Her mother's neat writing above hers, trying to copy what she had done, frustrated, because her memory showed her exactly how her mother had formed the letters a few seconds ago, but her hand wouldn't do the same thing.  
  
The letters where all wobbly.   
  
Neat, blue, 'Susochenkta,' and her own scribbled efforts beneath.  
  
She remembers throwing the pen away, her mothers best fountain pen, in anger. And her mother's mind-voice, comforting her, encouraging, her soft hands wiping away angry tears.  
  
Holding out the pen, blue and silver tipped.   
  
Right here, Susan. You can do it, I know you can. S . . U . . S . . . A . . . N . . .I I'm so proud of you.  
  
Her mother taught her to write Susochenkta. Only at school did she ever write 'Susan.'  
  
Right here Commander. Just sign your name. Then you can leave. Isn't it so simple? You're the only person keeping you here. Sign your name and you can walk out of that door right now. Have a shower. Something to eat. See the sky. How long has it been since you've seen a sky Susan? Just sign your name. You can even stay with me till you find a place to live. Earth will be so grateful. Sign your name, and you can walk straight out of that door.  
  
It sounded so easy.  
  
  
  
  
  
She wanted to see a sky. Feel a breeze. Hear a bird. She imagined sitting on the soft grass, freshly cut, smelling of summer and freedom. She breathed deep, smelled her own mess, sweat and excrement, and the smell of those faceless men all over her.   
  
She retched dryly, nothing left the throw up, acid burning her throat, her trachea. Or was that the windpipe? What do you call the other one? Osop . . oeso . . . something.  
  
Just sign here Susan, the hand holding out the pen. She took it frowning, not seeing the almost-triumphant grin waiting to break onto the man's face.   
  
Oeso . . Oesophagus  
  
No. That didn't look right.  
  
Wait a minute.  
  
But he had snatched pen and paper out of her hand, frowning. She wanted to try again, she could get it right if she tried, she knew she could. Oeosuphugas. Her memory should tell her this, she should know this, she should . . .  
  
But he was gone, and the door slammed shut and the metallic voice began.  
  
Night time.   
  
She closes her eyes, and clenched her fists, concentrating on the nails digging into her palm.   
  
Waiting.  
  
  
  
  
  
Michael.  
  
She was gonna kick his ass for something.  
  
Damn Garibaldi arrogant stupid traitor pig gonna kick your ass gonna kill you idiot traitor kick your Garibaldi damn damned gonna kick your smug ass all the way to Z'ha'dum smug arrogant vain grin traitor pig  
  
And John too.  
  
Gonna kick all their asses.  
  
Men.  
  
Phff.  
  
Close your eyes, and think of England. She giggled inappropriately and the hands paused for a moment before continuing.   
  
To strive to seek to find and not to yield.  
  
Close your eyes and be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere but here . . .  
  
All for a cause. A good cause. Nobler, higher, honest-to-god good cause. She knew it was, though she couldn't remember what it was. She knew it was worth all of this, all the pain and humiliation, and it would be better soon, because soon, soon they would come and help her.  
  
But if it was Garibaldi she was going to kick his ass.  
  
  
  
  
  
A nice shower. Water turned up to boiling, pressure as high as she could get it, so abrasive it can wash all the stickiness and sweat and foulness of her. So it could burn off the layer after layer of skin taking all the memories and fears and hate with them.  
  
Please, please, please, leave me, please, leave me alone, please, please..  
  
She doesn't say the words out loud, she keeps them locked inside, in a small metal box, the way she used to lock up secrets from her mother, in a box, locked and bolted and buried beneath everything else.  
  
She doesn't say them out loud.   
  
She thinks she doesn't anyway.  
  
Maybe a bath would be better. Except then she'd be lying in it all as it washed off, and that would be no better than now, blood and piss and sweat and semen and  
  
Retching.  
  
Okay.  
  
So shower, then a bath once she's clean. A pointless waste of water but she hasn't used any for the past few weeks (months, years) so she's got some sort of back payment arrangement with the universe she thinks.   
  
Then eating.  
  
Retching.  
  
Or not. A drink would be nice. She licks her lips. And hands brush across them and makes a lewd comment she doesn't hear.  
  
Then something's at her mouth, pushing against her lips, to large to be a finger, bulging, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time..  
  
Clench eyes, clench fists, nails in palm, drawing blood, somewhere else, anywhere else, anywhere but here.  
  
Her own bed, stretched out comfortably, no one to disturb her, alone and happy.  
  
Seat of a fighter, flying through empty space, stars distant, not another human for miles and miles.  
  
Free falling from the sky, back to the ground, face in the clouds, breeze around her, like a gentle shield, safe and alone, and not caring that any minute now she would hit the ground . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"She's getting less co-operative, not more. And there's still no sign of Sheridan!"  
  
"He must be planning to move soon then. He wouldn't leave her for too long."  
  
Her eyes recount the tiles on the ceiling. Forty nine, forty eight, fifty, fifty three, fifty four, fifty eleven, fifty five. ..  
  
Except the ceiling's solid metal. No tiles.  
  
Giggle.   
  
"She's not talking. She's not doing anything."  
  
"This is pointless."  
  
"We don't need her confession. If Sheridan's going to move soon, it won't matter either way. She's not important. It's Sheridan Clark wants publicly beaten. No one even knows she's been captured."  
  
"What do we do with her?"  
  
"Leave her. There are more important things to be done."  
  
"What about the . . . night arrangements?"  
  
Pause.  
  
She's recounting the stars. Eleventy nine, eleventy ten, twelfy one. . . .  
  
No hands. It's daytime.   
  
Can't see stars during day time.  
  
Sob.  
  
"Leave those as they are."  
  
Nods all round. She joins in, nodding her head up and down so it bangs loudly on the table.  
  
"You pushed too far."  
  
"She's very stubborn. She lasted longer than most."  
  
"Gonna kick your ass, all of you. . . .Michael John, Steven. . . kick 'em back to Z'ha'dum." Her voice slurred the words.  
  
"What's he's talking about?"  
  
Shrug.  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
  
  
  
  
It's important she resists. Very important. She doesn't know why, it just is. It always has been. It's traditional that she resists. Traditions are important. Gotta resist.   
  
'Cept he doesn't come anymore. There's not even a new one. Just long, long hours. Empty between the persistent nightly visits  
  
She's lonely.  
  
His voice was comforting after awhile. Knowing he wasn't like the faceless night visitors, made him a friend. Or less of an enemy.  
  
Was he the enemy?  
  
She was confused.  
  
"Minbari killed your brother. " He would whisper. "Aliens. Why do you work with them? Betray his memory?" He sounded like a friend should. "What would Ganya say? I think he'd be ashamed." He cared. "I know you don't want that. Don't you want him to be proud of you? You followed him into Earthforce after all."  
  
Sounded reasonable. They'd killed him. She should stick with her own kind, blood kind, people whom looked like her, who were like her.   
  
But at night it was human hands and human breath and human semen that covered her.  
  
They were trying to confuse her.  
  
The voice had stopped too, the one that was comforting in it's unending existence. Doesn't matter what's going on. It said, but not in words. Beneath the words. Listen to me. It chanted. This is fact. This is true. Always will be, no matter what they're doing to you.  
  
'Resistance will be punished. Co-operation will be rewarded.'   
  
She took to chanting it to herself .  
  
'You will confess to the crimes of which you have been accused. You will be returned to society a useful and productive citizen.'  
  
And in the night, with the voice ringing true in her ears, even from her own mouth, she wanted to.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
